Winter Soldier
There have been so many deaths, including his own. There are the people - his men - who he sees dying over and over in the back of his head. There are strangers who he looks down his scope at, whose lives he takes. There is himself, killed over and over again every time the electricity crashes through him.
He’s so tired of all the death. Of everything. Of being forced to train, to become ‘better’, a machine for his enemies. They don’t trust him, but they think he’d given up. They think he doesn’t remember. And sure, he doesn’t remember his name or where he comes from or how he got here, but he remembers all the death.
And that’s enough.
The thing is, these people have trained him to be a ghost, to do anything they want him to do flawlessly. The thing is, these people don’t realise you can’t just erase a person. You can’t take out bits and pieces and leave a blank slate. They left him the fight, because that’s what they needed him for. And he has this fight, this burning anger singeing his veins.
He has to get out. He’s due for another mission in an hour, one that will take him far from the base. He doesn’t know who he is to kill, but he knows that he won’t. He won’t do it. He’s sitting in the back of a truck with men whose names he doesn’t know. The man to his right has a stun baton, one he’s felt on the highest voltage many times.
He’s going to get out. His eyes are on his feet - he’s not allowed to look around - but he can just see the landscape flashing by. He remains still, not giving away his thoughts. If he turns on them now, these people have no chance. They don’t expect him too, of course. He’s their perfect little soldier. Their machine. Their puppet. Their sobaka.
He wants to rip out their throats like the dog they think he is. He’s said he’s tired of killing, but because of these men, he’s bred like a bloodhound, bred for the hunt, bred for the kill. He can’t shake that off.
The vehicle stumbles to a halt, wheels grinding on rocks and snow. They’re on the Belarus border - he’d heard them talking. The back of the truck opens up and the men pile out, his at their heels. He stands close to his handler, keeping up the blank-eyed look he wears. Orders are snapped at the men, then at him.
He is to kill a man known at Alekai. Instead, he’s going disappear. They trained him as a ghost and a ghost he will be. As the men move out he takes a moment to make his plan. He’s got three trackers in him - one in his thigh, one in his neck and one in his bicep. He’s sure there’s some in his clothes as well. These are the things that need to go as soon as they can.
First, he needs to disappear. He needs to make sure he’s not looked for, but - how?
The answer comes to him in the form of their transport. He’s loaded onto a train and sat down in his designated seat. He continues to stare blankly. If he could just - cause a scene. Create chaos. He could slip away, jump off the train. Run. He needs to wait for a place that has a low chance of survival.
He doesn’t have to wait long. The train moves along, through a tunnel and out into the open, racing along a cliff face. He stares out the window out of the corner of his eye, something like hope building up in his chest. He stands, lunges for his handlers throat first. The men had been talking, ignoring him like they always do.
Just has he had hoped, chaos erupts. Guns are drawn, the shouting starts. He disarms the men in this carriage without trouble, knocking a few to the floor. One is trying to contact backup, but he is dead in a second. He doesn’t know who he is, but he has been their soldier for far too long. He takes one of the guns, slams it against the glass of one of the windows. In a few hits, the wind roars into the carriage, nearly taking him by surprise.
No one is moving against him - they’re all unconscious. The people who find them like this will search the train first, but they won’t find him. The train is moving fast, the landscape but a white blur. He stares out of the window, before hauling himself up and jumping. He can’t help but scream. He wonders if he’ll die rather than run free, but finds that either outcome is better than staying with - with - Hydra.
Hydra. He sits upright, heart hammering in his chest. He’d - he’d been a captive of Hydra. Soldat. Zimniy Soldat. Oh, god, he’d - he’d killed so many people, so many innocent people and he’d escaped the people who’d made him do it and he’d just kept doing it. He curls in on himself, horror squeezing his gut. He’s a monster.
Why were the memories coming back now? After seven years, why is he getting the answers now? He’s in his bed, vaguely remembers stumbling there and collapsing into it before passing out last night. He’d found himself scrolling through Steve’s facebook, drinking in every piece of information he could find about William Jonathan Beckham.
He and Steve had been best friends, like Steve had said. They’d been partners, lovers, and they’d loved each other wholeheartedly. On the date of William’s death every year Steve and some of his friends held a get together with everyone who could make it. This is probably what made James want to find Steve the most - he needed to ask him questions.
And - and James needed to hunt down Hydra. But he wouldn’t have to do that alone. He gets out of bed, forced himself to shower. He eats some toast, unable to stomach anything else. Today is a Sunday - the only day Tony’s shop isn’t open. James is out the door as quick as he can, jogging down the stairs and texting Natalia.
To: Nat
When are you going to be in Brooklyn next?
The reply comes lightning fast, surprising him.
From: Nat
I can be there tomorrow morning. What’s up?
To: Nat
Tell you tomorrow.
With that sorted, James hurries down the street. He has no idea where Steve lives, but he’d been restless in that apartment. He needs to just walk for a bit. He dials Clint’s number, hoping that this time he’ll pick up. And he does, on the last ring.
“Barton,” comes through the line.
James takes a turn, ducking down a side-street. “Clint, can I ask you a big favor?”
“Am I breaking into government official stuff again?”
“No, but it might be worse than that? I need you to dig up everything you can about a group called Hydra. I’m pretty sure they’re Russian, but I could be wrong. I have no idea if they’re still active, but it’s important,” he says, subconsciously looking over every person he passes on the street and checking for danger, for threats.
Clint’s quiet for a moment. “James...Why are you asking me about Hydra? How do you even know that name?”
James stops. Right in the middle of the street, he stops. “What do you know,” he growls, picking up the pace again, glaring at the sidewalk.
“Tell me where you heard the name, first,” Clint demands, sounding deadly serious in a way that sends James’ head spinning.
He ducks into an alley, getting off the street. “Inside my head. I...it was a memory. I dreamed about it,” he admits. Clint is quiet for so long James has to check the call is still connected. It is. “Clint?” he prompts.
“Where are you right now?”
“In an alley, why? Clint, what do you know?” He’s losing his patience.
“Get off the streets, come straight to my apartment. This is serious, James,” Clint hisses.
James can hear him walking around, cursing under his breath. “I have someone I need to see -” he protests, frowning. This feels ominous, like everything is far bigger than it once seemed.
“Straight here. Please.”
“Alright. I’ll be there in an hour,” he says and hangs up, heart pounding.
He’s suddenly incredibly glad he brought along a couple of knives. He gets going immediately, keeping his head down and walking fast. He almost walks into a couple of people, flinching away from them just in time. The walk from Red Hook to Bedford-Stuyvesant is long but the way Clint talked - this is serious, James knows.
The events of his dream buzz around his brain like bees, stinging, loud. He’s so focussed on not dissolving into panic that when someone grabs his arm he doesn’t think, just acts. The person is on the ground in a second and James finds himself leaning over them, lips drawn back in a snarl and one hand hovering over a sheathed knife.
Steve stares up at him, eyes wide.
James draws back, subtly glancing around. People are staring, stopped in what they were doing. He curses internally before offering his hand to Steve and hauling him up. He tugs him close, feins a hug. People continue, though they still watch. “What do you want,” he hisses into Steve’s ear, pulling back and keeping him at arm’s length.
Steve’s breathing a little quicker, eyes still wide and shocked. He doesn’t look hurt, just startled. “I - I don’t think you heard me calling your name, I’m sorry - I wasn’t thinking -”
“What do you want,” James presses, Steve’s rambling adding to the buzzing in his head.
Steve presses his lips together, taking in a deep breath and seeming to think before he speaks. “I just want to talk. I don’t know what’s going on,” he murmurs.
James searches his eyes, finds nothing but truth. “Another time,” he says, moving to step around him and carry on to Clint’s. Steve steps with him and James freezes, glaring at him. “Move.”
“What happened, Bucky?” Steve whispers.
James shakes his head. “This isn’t the time nor the place -” he cuts off as his eyes catch a flicker of red. He looks past Steve, scouring the area and - there. Natalia is walking down the sidewalk, her steps unfamiliar. She’s working on not drawing attention to herself. She’s doing well.
“Bucky? What’s -”
James glares at Steve, silencing him. Natalia breezes past them, her hand touching his briefly. Steve’s eyes flicker over to her, but then go straight back to James’. James remains impassive, hand curling around the piece of paper in his hand. He doesn’t have to look behind him to know that Natalia has disappeared.
“Come with me,” he says, stepping around Steve and heading for Clint’s.
Steve spins around, hurrying after him. “Do you...remember anything?” he asks, falling into step with him.
James scowls, looking down at the paper in his hand. It reads, simply, ‘Meet you at Clint’s. Hurry up.’ “I get flashes. Look, we’re talking about this now. Just wait.”
“Where’re we going?”
James crunches up the piece of paper and shoves it in his pocket. If Natalia’s involved as well as Clint, it must be something bad. “Just stay quiet and walk faster,” he says. “If you want answers, I’m going to have to find them first.”
He knows Steve must be bursting with even more questions now, but he stays quiet. James counts his blessings and quickens the pace.